From 20K a Week to Nearly Dying on Couch to 5K

Yes, we have been here before more than once…..

This is embarrassing.

There was a time, not very long ago, when I could confidently call myself a runner. Not a particularly fast runner, admittedly.

But a runner nonetheless.

I was regularly knocking out 15–20 kilometres a week. Three runs, sometimes more. Parkruns, running club, Rave Run, the occasional 10K. I had a routine. I had improving times. I had actual fitness.

I even had ambitions of breaking the magical ( to me) 30-minute parkrun barrier.

Then June happened.

And I stopped running.

Not intentionally. There was no dramatic retirement announcement, no emotional farewell lap of Worcester, no hanging up of the running shoes accompanied by Chariots of Fire.

I just stopped.

One week became two. Two became four. And before I knew it, June had turned into October and my running shoes had become expensive ornaments.

Fitness is a bit like money. Takes bloody ages to accumulate, but you can lose it remarkably quickly.

After several months of doing absolutely nothing that could be described as running or indeed exercise, I decided it was time for a comeback.

And rather than arrogantly assuming I could pick up where I’d left off, I did the sensible thing.

I downloaded the NHS Couch to 5K app.

Yes. Couch to 5K. Again. ( Again )

From running 15–20K a week to being instructed to run for 60 seconds at a time.

How hard could it possibly be?

Quite hard, as it turns out.

Actually, that’s underselling it.

Week One Run One nearly fucking killed me.

For those unfamiliar with Couch to 5K, the first week involves alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking.

Sixty seconds.

ONE MINUTE.

About 40 seconds in, my lungs were submitting a formal complaint, my legs were questioning my choices, and my heart was attempting to escape through my chest.

And all the while, the lovely Jill Scott was cheerfully encouraging me through my AirPods.

I love Jill Scott. Absolute legend. England football hero. Seems like the sort of person you’d happily spend an afternoon down the pub with.

But there is something a bit irritating about having an incredibly fit former international footballer enthusiastically telling you that you’re doing brilliantly when you’re staggering along looking like you’ve just escaped from a particularly unsuccessful cardiac stress test.

“You’re doing great!”

AM I, JILL? AM I REALLY?

Because from where I’m standing, or more accurately, wheezing, things aren’t looking particularly great.

Still, I survived.

Just.

Despite the embarrassment, despite the wheezing, despite the rather crushing realisation of just how much fitness I’ve lost, I’m actually quite pleased with myself.

Because I started again.

And that’s the bit that matters, isn’t it?

It’s incredibly easy to look back at where you were and get thoroughly depressed about where you are now. I could run 10K. I could run three times a week. I was getting quicker. I was within touching distance of that elusive ( to me)sub-30 parkrun.

Now I’m celebrating surviving a minute.

But there’s no point sulking about it. The fitness hasn’t vanished forever. It’s just buggered off on an extended holiday without leaving a forwarding address.

And hopefully, with a bit of persistence, I can persuade it to come home.

So here we go. Nine weeks of Couch to 5K. Again.

No heroic targets. No ridiculous expectations. Just getting out there, putting one foot in front of the other and gradually rebuilding what I’ve lost.

And hopefuly some good TikTok footage

The sub-30 parkrun dream hasn’t been abandoned. It’s just been temporarily relocated to the extremely distant horizon.

And perhaps there’s a lesson here for anyone else who’s fallen off the exercise wagon.

It doesn’t matter how fit you used to be. It doesn’t matter how far you used to run. And it certainly doesn’t matter if your first attempt back leaves you gasping for air while Jill Scott tells you how wonderful you are.

Starting again isn’t failure.

Not starting again would be.

Anyway, Week One is underway.

Only another eight weeks until I can run 5K.

Apparently.

Assuming Jill doesn’t kill me first.

The Haphazard Athlete.

Still haphazard. Significantly less athletic.